Lady Gaga has revealed the secret of her “perfect skin”. Apparently, her alabaster complexion is maintained through lots of orgasms and spinach. I share this information with the manager of the safari camp, who hopes to entice La Gaga over here for a holiday.
“Her spinach-orgasm therapy wouldn’t protect her skin from the mosquitoes,” I remark. “You’ll have to warn her if she visits.”
“Wouldn’t the sound of her orgasms scare off the mozzies?” asks the manager facetiously.
“Indeed not,” I reply. “Only female mosquitoes bite, and they wouldn’t be intimidated by her caterwauling. The female of the species instinctively knows when a creature of the same gender is getting herself off.”
“In that case you’ll have to give her some of your natural jungle ointment,” says the manager with a smirk.
“She’ll have to pay for it,” I insist. “Jungle skin cream doesn’t grow on trees, and she could easily afford the full retail price.”
“Aren’t you worried she might think you’re a tight-fisted wanker?” guffaws the manager before sauntering off. I suppose he thinks he made a joke of some variety.
As well as discussing her beauty secrets, Gaga explained why her love affairs have been short-lived and turbulent. It seems the artistic types she attracts soon grow envious of her musical talent:
If I go to the piano and write a quick song and play it back, they are angry with how fast and effortless it is. That's who I am, and I don't apologise for it.
I believe Mozart had similar problems, but Gaga is kidding herself if she thinks it’s why her boyfriends keep throwing her out of bed. Methinks the lady doth boast too much. The real reason for her break-ups might have something to do with her annoying little habits, like having 37 orgasms a day to avoid getting zits. And how do we know her skin is really so wonderful beneath the layers of make-up she puts on? I suspect her true complexion is like that of the Milky Bar Kid – pale and creamy, but lacking in lustre.
Now, the Scandinavians claim that the best thing for the skin is a sauna. I once got invited to one in Sweden, by a couple of flaxen-haired girls who had watched me perform in the circus:
“Please join us, GB!” they begged. “It will open up your pores and flush out the toxins. We will blow dry you afterwards if you like.”
I thought it best to decline tactfully: “A most generous offer, ladies, but sweating is for the hairless. We gorillas flush out our toxins in other ways.”
The girls were bitterly disappointed, and in truth I could have easily endured a sauna, which is not so different from the climate of a tropical rain forest. My real fear, of course, was wagging tongues. A gorilla should never get into a cabin with naked women unless there are witnesses who will testify to the absence of hanky-panky. That idiot King Kong has given us enough bad publicity.
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